Angel's whispers
by proffdippet
Summary: “The whisper of an Angel’s wings gives an uplifting rush of happiness. It comforts and quiets the soul, heals pain and covers anger.” How does Ron comfort Hermione late one night during the war?


"The whisper of an Angel's wings gives an uplifting rush of happiness. It comforts and quiets the soul, heals pain and covers anger."

The late night still of the kitchen is odd to me. It is odd being away from the crush of bodies and constant murmuring of thirty or so people that usually squeeze themselves in here. I notice for the first time in a while just how big the room is and how the slightest noise seems magnified to twice as loud. It is also cold without other people milling around or the fire burning bright and hot.

I turn in my chair and watch the embers slowly dying and pull my blanket tighter across my shoulders, trying to remember how loving warmth feels when he holds me. I try my hardest not to cry at the memory too. I miss him. Right now, I need him.

This war alienates people, neighbours from neighbours, sometimes friends and worst of all families fall apart. I hate them for it. I hate that they pulled his family apart. I hate that they put strain on our friendship. I hate that we can't let our relationship be shown, that we sneak glances at each other, and brush hands secretly and as often as we dare. I hate that he is upstairs asleep and I am in the kitchen wishing I could curl up next to him. I can't even peek around the door. I shouldn't think either of them is sleeping peacefully and I daren't risk waking them and giving secrets away.

At the moment I miss him the most. We argued and he stormed away followed by Harry in anger at our own anger. It is not unusual these days to hear one or more angry words pass between us. We disagree on strategy, we disagree on who should carry out what task, and we disagree on what to eat for dinner and who will be making it.

I don't miss Harry though at the moment. I miss Him. It is his voice I want to hear even if it is raised in anger at me. And it is his arm I want to feel wrapped around my waist and his hand I want to feel clasped in mine.

For a while I sit in silence, as I do every night. I think about the war, and how to stop it. I think about the mess we have become through lack of sleep and frustration at each other, and how to fix it. I think about the warmth of my bed upstairs, and how to raise the energy to get to it. I always think about his voice, whispering in my ear as he passes me or shouting at me from the other side of the library or talking to me at the dinner table. And for a second I am angry with him. I am angry that he is not sat on the opposite side of the fire smiling at me sleepily and just talking to me. I am angry that we dance around our feelings and most of all I am angry at the war.

I hear footsteps in the hall and stiffen, hold my breath. I don't want either of them to know I am out of bed, although they must notice I am constantly tired. Besides which I know that it is him stood in the doorway, watching me. I let out my breath. There is no point in holding it anymore. I expect him to say something scathing, tell me off perhaps. All I hear him do is sigh and cautiously step towards me until he is stood just behind me next to the table and I still expect him to say something to me. But he doesn't. Instead I hear him place something quietly on the table and leave again.

As soon as I hear his footfall on the stairs I look around and see a carefully folded note there. It is light pink in colour and I can just make out his scrawled handwriting on it. I slowly move to take the note in my fatigued state and pick it up, unfolding it. I smile at his loopy handwriting and as I begin to read the short note his voice quietly begins speaking the words in a way that I had never encountered before. They are not the harsh booming tones of a howler, rather the soothing quiet tones of Ron's voice speaking to me.

At his words something closes up in my chest. My anger is subdued and my pain healed over as his voice comforts and soothes me. His voice sounds like the whisper of an Angel's wings to my broken soul and, for the first time in many days, I experience something close to happiness as I sit in a cold, deserted kitchen in the middle of London.

Author's Note: I own no characters in this story, but i do own the plot bunny and as far as i am aware, the quote at the top. Oh and the idea of the talking letter is sort of mine, it is based on the howlers.


End file.
